


where do your roots begin (and where do your roots end)

by KrasneTigritsa



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Bruce is trying, Damian is trying, Gen, Happy Ending, I tried to err on the side of vagueness for the stuff I haven't actually read, I'm not sure if this is canon-compliant, Talia is trying, damian wayne angst, so I hope that works okay, sorta angsty? I guess?, we're all just trying really hard okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 00:05:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12287055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrasneTigritsa/pseuds/KrasneTigritsa
Summary: Gentleness does not run in Talia's blood.But maybe it should.





	where do your roots begin (and where do your roots end)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Roots' by In This Moment.

“He isn’t good enough. Not yet.” 

There is something cold in her father’s eyes, something hard. She has grown used to that look, over the years; even grown to see the love she knows lies beyond it ( _knows. Thinks._ They are one and the same, are they not?), but he is not looking at her. He is looking at her son. 

She turns her own eyes on the boy, doing his exercises, and sees her father’s meaning. He is rash, and angry, and spends too much energy on moves that are meant to be as smooth as thought. 

The boy’s eyes flick towards them. The next kick he throws nearly takes him off balance, he puts so much effort into it. He’s getting distracted. Thinking about their approval instead of his own improvement. She should be disappointed, and she is, but...

(have her eyes grown as cold as her father’s? Why do children have to be _good enough_?)

“I see,” she says. 

She saw. But she did not agree. And as her father continued to outline his plans (for herself, for the boy, for the world. Who died and made you God, old man?) she smiles, and nods, and makes a plan of her own.

 

* * *

 

“I thought you would be taller.” 

It’s funny. It is. But her son’s eyes are as cold as his grandfather’s as he says it--would be, anyway, if not for the fear she can sense behind them ( _think_ and _know_ may be fickle, but _sense_ is not). He is a boy who has learned to measure things--a boy who thinks only of skill and merit, deserving and undeserving. 

It should not be about _deserve._ She knows it, in her mind; but in her bones... 

The man who stands before them both holds confusion in his eyes and wariness in his fists. He glances between them cautiously, and she knows that he is searching for a reason to trust her. She remembers the pattern of every scar on his skin, and knows just how each one must have felt when it was made; a man should not survive that with any shred of hope. But this one has, somehow. 

She does not deserve trust. But given half a chance, he’ll offer it anyway. 

_It’s not about deserve._

Perhaps this is a lesson she would never be able to teach.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a simple lesson. A slip leads to a fall, and a fall can break you--or kill you. _So do not slip, and do not die._

He knows his mistake the moment the rock crunches under his boot, and is already bracing himself for the fall when it crumbles away. The pebbles will reach the cave floor just moments before he does, and he hopes the drop will not damage him too badly. The sooner he heals, the faster he can redeem himself from _this._

His stomach lurches as he slips over the drop. 

The pebbles clatter to a halt a few moments later, and he’s hanging, staring down at the drop below him and telling himself he isn’t frightened of it. He’s not. 

He looks up at the hand grasping his arm, at the impassive shadow of black staring down at him. 

“Never sacrifice your footing for a strike,” it says, in the same unlabored tones it always uses. He grimaces at the sage advice coming a little too late, and does not look down. He’s judged the distance already, and wishes Father would just drop him and get it over with. 

_A slip is a fall and a fall is a failure and--_

The hand only grips his arm tighter. 

And pulls him up. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to go write some original fic tonight, but this demanded to happen first. My knowledge of this fandom is 80% fanfic and 20% canon at this point, so please forgive any mistakes (I genuinely have No Idea what I'm doing. this is not news).


End file.
